


Sanctions

by unkissed



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Biology Inaccuracies, Biotechnology, Changing Tenses, Explicit Language, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Medical Jargon, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Pre-Slash, Pre-TFA, Rivalry, Sassy Phasma, Slash In later chapters, Teen Kylo, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An enigmatic boy flees the Republic to train at the Imperial Academy under the guidance of Supreme Leader Snoke along side a veritable prince of the Empire.  Brendol Hux, son of the academy’s highest ranking commandant, is obliged to partner with Kylo as they are groomed to take positions of great power in the First Order’s militia.  With the help of Phasma, Hux takes drastic measures to secure said position in the name of ambition.</p><p>In other words, Hux and Kylo are roomies when Snoke forces them to be besties.  Snarky squabbling and hateful lusting ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the canon Galactic Standard Calendar, there are 368 days in a year and 24 hours in a day. In my made-up Empirical Calendar Cycle, one cycle is shorter than a year in the GS calendar, so a reference to Hux having seen 22 cycles means he would be 20 years old according to the Galactic Standard Calendar, and 22 in our world. 
> 
> I've taken lots of liberties with canon, notably with Phasma's and Hux's first names.
> 
> Endless thanks and love go out to my friend Felena1971, my brilliant beta who goes back with me a LONG time.

CHAPTER 1

 

There was a time when you were just _Brendol_ to him – to the petulant boy who was destined to lead The First Order to victory over the New Republic. At least, you were _Brendol_ to him in private.

 

In public, you were Brendol Hux, distinguishable by title from your father of the same name. Eventually, you would finish your training at the Imperial Academy, and then you and your father would be distinguished from one another by rank. But until then, your fellow cadets and your commandants would simply call you Hux. Only your parents were entitled to call you anything but Hux, and still privately at that, for any sort of term of endearment is unbecoming of a man who would be a general – even speaking your given name was too intimate. A general of an Imperial fleet was to be feared, not loved.

 

Kylo was literally _just Kylo_ back then. He had denounced his surname upon his adoption into the folds of the First Order, though no one had even known what that surname had been.

 

He had always been an enigma from the moment he arrived at the Imperial Academy on Darwen Melos. When he came, he was a mere fledgling of a boy who had only seen twelve cycles by measure of the Empirical calendar, fourteen years by the archaic Galactic Standard Calendar he had been following prior to his arrival. Kylo was tall, even back then, with long arms made of lean muscle hewn by rigorous training in hand-to-hand combat. He wore his black hair like a shroud that hid his eyes and a head full of secrets - more secrets than a boy his age should be expected to keep.

 

Kylo was legendary even before he entered the First Order controlled Kappa 5 System of the Unknown Regions, for his arrival had been anticipated. They (the amorphous _they_ ) said The Force was strong within Kylo. It had reverberated across the galaxy with enough Dark Side affinity that Supreme Leader Snoke had sensed the boy’s burgeoning power. Snoke talked about the mysterious child as if he were a savior, prophesied to resurrect the shattered Empire.

 

At the time, you were not a believer of The Force. You thought Snoke was creating fanciful propaganda to boost morale – a mythical figure behind which troops could rally against The New Republic. You were shocked when, as foretold, the boy actually showed up as a stowaway on a supply freighter. Even still, you thought Kylo was just a runaway with high aspirations, perhaps a sand rat from some forsaken wasteland of a planet seeking escape from a dreary life in the Republic.

 

He was no prince of the Empire like you. You, who were born just prior to the Battle of Endor to the commandant who would control Arkanis Academy, and later the Imperial Academy. There had never been a doubt that the First Order would flourish under your rule, once you grew up and ascended quickly through the ranks to seize it. You were preordained to restore Imperial rule to the galaxy.

 

Kylo came from nothing, as far as you were concerned. From the time he was a mere rumor, the little shit had been stealing your thunder – usurping your path of ascension – shadowing you with his mere aura – distracting Snoke and stealing his attention away from you.

 

He trained with you and the other cadets of the academy, though he never made an effort to assimilate into your ranks. He never even wore the standard issue cadet uniform, preferring instead to don those fucking ridiculous billowing black robes. Kylo was never one of you. He was something else – something _more_ in the eyes of the Supreme Leader, and thus behaved as such, and was treated as such.

 

You had been born five calendar cycles prior to Kylo, and by age alone, he owed you respect. But he was always a shade too insubordinate for you - his superior by rank and by social status. His impudence was subtle enough that you had no real grounds to make any official sanctions against him, other than castigation.

 

You remember the dreadful day that Supreme Leader Snoke summoned both you and Kylo to the audience chamber. His towering hologram loomed over you as he bestowed an honor and a burden in a single decree. You and Kylo would both continue your training under Snoke’s direct guidance. He would be taking each of you under his proverbial wings and grooming you to be leaders of the First Order militia – his seconds in command.

 

Snoke showed you the gleaming blueprints for a Resurgent-class Star Destroyer. “By the time its construction is complete,” he had said, “you will be ready to command it.” It was akin to dangling a slab of meat above two ravenous beasts in order to inspire the animals to fight for it.

 

You initially thought that Snoke was setting you up to compete for the sole right to command the ship. But as he continued to explain, he had made it starkly clear that you and Kylo would have equal authority over this ship. You were reduced to two squabbling siblings forced to share a shiny new toy.

In essence, you were bound to Kylo, this brooding little shit, for the rest of your career, and quite possibly, for the rest of your life.

 

From that moment on, you were partners at the academy, except you really weren’t. You were domiciled together, trained together, schooled together, even bloody ate together – but Snoke would steal Kylo away for secret training sessions to which you were not invited. You suspected the training had to do with this _Force_ nonsense that was allegedly strong within the teen aged reprobate.

 

Each time Kylo returned from these special training sessions, he was slightly changed. It wasn’t apparent to anyone but to you, for you had been living your life in such close conjunction with his that you had learned all of his bothersome nuances and could detect when those nuances varied. You knew him better than anyone, and perhaps he could say the same about you. But you would not consider him a friend. You were obliged to consider him your colleague. Snoke never required you to give a damn about Kylo. So you didn’t. You noted these odd variances of Kylo’s otherwise predictable persona, but it was of no concern to you.

 

Until it directly affected you.

 

You had seen twenty-two cycles by this time, your last at the academy. Kylo was seventeen. You were sitting at your desk, studying the TIE-fighter technical specifications or something else just as tedious.

He came into the domicile you shared and sat down on his bed.

 

“The TIE Space Superiority fighter is equipped with a hyperdrive powered by two ion reactors and pre-charged deuterium power cells.” Kylo spoke the words aloud just as you had read them to yourself in your head.

 

You whipped around in your chair to scowl at him, and found him sitting there with his eyes closed, in a meditative state. His arm was outstretched, as if reaching for you.

 

“Did your homework, I see?” you scoffed, unimpressed by his knowledge and his theatrics. “Shall I test you?” you challenged him as you always do. “What are the key differences between the TIE Space Superiority and the TIE First Order starfighters?”

 

Kylo opened his eyes and let his arm fall to his side. His posture, which had been stiff prior, sank under his own weight. “No fucking idea. Haven’t studied yet.”

 

You quirked a disbelieving brow at him. “So you just pulled that information out of your arse, then, Kylo?”

 

“I just read it,” he replied. He paused for effect. And that’s when he smirked – a slight upturn to the corner of his full lips. “In your mind.”

 

You rolled your eyes and swiveled your chair to turn away from him. “Fuck off, Ky,” you said dismissively.

 

You would only ever speak to one another so crudely in private, lest someone overhear you being anything but dignified. You also didn’t want Snoke to catch wind that his pair of protégés did not actually get along. And you would never, _never_ let anyone catch you calling him _Ky_. You used the adopted diminutive of his moniker with a mocking air, and only when you grew so weary of him that you couldn’t bother to speak both syllables of his name. You were certainly tired of his shit at that moment.

 

As far as you knew, nobody else was permitted to call him _Ky_. And in turn, by default of reciprocation, he had been allowed to refer to you by something other than _Hux_.

 

“I’m dead serious, Brendol,” he said, as gravely as his words. “I saw the sentence as clearly as if I’d been looking at the screen through your eyes.”

 

You went deathly still, but did not deign to show Kylo that you had anything but doubt in your mind. You didn’t need to show him, for he already _knew_. You felt something tugging at your consciousness – a sensation completely alien and inexplicable.

 

“You believe me,” he said, plucking the thoughts out of your head as they materialized in your brain, reading your feelings as if your soul were a tome laid bare for him to study. “You know I wouldn’t joke about this. You know I am learning to access my innate power, and it scares you. So you pretend that you don’t believe The Force is real.”

 

You shot up from your chair with enough swiftness and anger that it fell over, though your face remained a stoic picture of self-control. You walked over to Kylo’s bed, took his chin firmly in your hand, and tipped his head back to look into his eyes as his long fringe fell away.

 

With an even and deceptively calm voice, you said, “Stay out of my head, Kylo. Or I will murder you in your sleep, drag your body into the sanitation bay, and incinerate it like the trash that you are.”

 

Kylo was quiet and solemn for a moment. You saw something glinting behind his eyes that resembled uncertainty. It was gone before you could interpret it. Then he flashed that fucking smirk at you again and joked mockingly, “But what if I buy you dinner at the Officer’s Club first? Will you let me inside _then_?”

 

Flustered, you shoved his face away by his prominent chin. “You’re disgusting. I should report you to Commandant Kewliss. This sort of harassment within the domiciles is sanctionable, you know.” Never mind that you had just threatened to kill Kylo and dispose of his remains.

 

Kylo snorted defiantly. “Kewliss? She’d take bets on how deep I could get. Why don’t you run to Commandant Hux instead? Tell daddy how your co-habitant touched you inappropriately inside your head.”

 

You wanted to punch Kylo in his smug face, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You’d take it out on him tomorrow during combat drills.

 

That night you had the irrational feeling that Kylo’s fingers were prodding at your brain from all the way across the domicile, poking incessantly in an attempt to regain entry. So you occupied your last waking minutes with thoughts of how much you hated the boy. You allowed your violent imagination to play out with a sort of freedom you’d never entertained before – vivid images of your gloved hands closing around the elegant column of Kylo’s pale neck.

 

It was intended to be a threat, or even a game. If Kylo was going to force his way into your head to see your thoughts, he was going to get an eyeful. The more you thought about strangling him with increasingly intimate detail, the more this thought pleased you for what it really was – not a threat, but a fantasy.   You imagined the thrum of his pulse against your fingertips, the look in his eyes as he resigned to the fact that his life was invariably in your hands. You felt a surge of power and the thrill of adrenaline rushing through your veins, sending heat and color to your cheeks. You didn’t just dream of this, you _wanted_ it. You wanted it with the sort of urgent desire that you had been suppressing since the moment your manhood had manifested itself physically in your thirteenth cycle.

 

You saw Kylo’s lips turn blue and found it cathartically beautiful. And then those cyanotic lips moved – not by any fantasy conjured by your dark mind. They moved of their own accord and spoke with Kylo’s voice – a voice that you heard as clearly in your head as if he’d actually said them aloud.

 

“ _You long to watch me dying at your hands… You’d kill me over and over again just to watch with sick pleasure… but you’d miss me.”_

 

When your eyes flashed open with shock, Kylo was there, hovering over you in the dark, with the faint fluorescence of the indicator lights on the domicile ceiling glowing behind his head like a halo.

 

“You would. Wouldn’t you?” he whispered, not inside your head, but with his mouth too close to your face and his hot breath ghosting your lips like the phantom kiss of a lover you forbid yourself to take.

You stared at him – the shadow of a boy – of a _man_ – looming over you. You were still, unblinking, emotionless, when you simply said, “Yes,” then slowly rolled onto your side as if you were dismissing him and going to sleep.

 

“Good,” Kylo whispered. He remained there entirely too long, kneeling at your bedside, boring holes in the back of your head. Before he moved to his side of the domicile, he said, casually mocking you, “Killing your co-habitant in his sleep is sanctionable you know, Brendol.”

 

In the morning, he looked at you like he was privy to forbidden knowledge. You felt violated. Kylo had been rummaging through your head all night, stealing your dreams, collecting secrets from your subconscious, and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop him from taking whatever he wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I went and changed the tense on you.

CHAPTER 2

 

 

“You could be Commandant some day. Or a general,” said Hux, with admiration heavily coloring his words, “You are too brilliant to remain a sergeant.” He wondered if it were not too much.

 

“I’m aware, Hux,” Sargent Phasma replied shortly. “What do you want?”

 

A crease formed at the center of Hux’s brow as he feigned taking offense to her assumptions. “What makes you think that I want something?”

 

Phasma smiled tightly, never turning her attention away from the console at which she was working. “Men seem to think that women will give them what they want when they compliment them.”

 

“Haven’t you heard? Chivalry and sexism are antiquated here,” Hux replied with a bit of sarcasm, for Phasma had always vocally upheld equality amongst genders. “It’s what makes us more progressive than the old societies of The Republic.”

 

Sargent Phasma continued to pluck away at icons on a holographic screen. “I’ve known you long enough to realize that intimidation is more your style. So why are you trying to sweet-talk me as if you are a green first-year cadet attempting to get under a girl’s armor?”

 

“Because _I_ have known you long enough to realize that intimidation doesn’t work with you. You could throw me half-way from Darwen Melos to Coruscant.” Hux absently examined an errant thread on the cuff of his blue cadet uniform, unconcerned with the fact that Phasma could indeed overpower him. “Thought I might take a softer approach.”

 

Phasma swiped away at the screen to minimize it and finally turned to regard Hux. Rather formally, she said, “You may approach then.” She looked up at him from her seat, unblinking and expectant.

 

Hux took a step forward and stood at attention. It was a reflexive move. Though Phasma was not his commander, she was his superior. “Madame Sargent, I am requesting a private audience.”

 

Phasma raised an eyebrow, pretending to be impressed, and cooed patronizingly, “So formal. Look at you - Daddy’s good little cadet.” She stood up, towering over Hux by at least forty empirical centimeters, and ruffled his precisely combed red hair.

 

He pursed his lips and furiously set his hair straight again. “Careful, Phasma,” he began to threaten.

 

“Oh, so now it’s just _Phasma_. I was rather enjoying _Madame Sargent_. So tired of being called _Sir_ by idiots who don’t know what to make of a Sargent with tits.”

 

“Phasma!” Hux hissed, scandalized, glancing around at anyone who may have overheard. A technician snorted amusedly from behind a console.

 

Phasma took him gently by the arm as she led him away to her office. “Calm _your_ tits Brendol. Things are a lot more relaxed in the Bio-Tech division.”

 

 

A long time ago, she was _Selwyn_ to him. She and Hux had been very close as children - close enough that she was one of the few people who could safely call him _Brendol,_ so close that his father thought it was dangerous. Romantic notions were a distraction.

 

The course of Hux’s life had been strictly laid out for him like a battle plan, and taking a wife to bear his heir was to be a strategic move. Selwyn Phasma had seen five cycles more than Hux. His father decided that she would be past prime childbearing age by the time it became necessary for Brendol to continue their highly decorated family line. For this reason, his father had forbid him to let his relationship with Selwyn flourish.

 

And besides, she was proving herself to be a formidable officer with ideas that could revolutionize the First Order’s militia – a woman this career-minded would never put her plans aside to bear Hux’s children, nor would he want her to. She was more useful to the First Order as an officer rather than a mother of future officers.

 

 

Hux was having a dilemma. He turned to the only person he could call a friend, though he wasn’t sure he could still do that. Judging from the current rapport between him and Phasma, which had always been this volatile at the best of times, it was hopeful.

 

“Kylo is becoming a problem,” he said, sitting stiffly in the office chair upon Phasma’s insistence.

 

 

The Force was real. Not something of myth and childish stories. Hux had felt it first hand. At least, he felt its effects – he would never actually feel The Force flowing through him the way Kylo spoke about it. The concept of The Force was completely abstract to Hux. He could not wrap his head around mystical things. He couldn’t understand how Kylo was able to extract his thoughts and feelings, or how it was possible for him to hurl objects by telekinesis – these were things that were simply impossible in Hux’s world, inexplicable by science or logic or technology.

 

Things that he could neither control nor understand had always frightened him. He was not afraid of much. But he was afraid of Kylo.

 

Hux was terrified of the prospect that Kylo could potentially become so powerful that he would supersede him. It was very likely that Kylo would render Hux obsolete as he grew stronger.

 

Kylo would always know what Hux was thinking and feeling, and could easily use it against him. He could make Hux doubt his abilities, make him look weak before the Supreme Leader. Perhaps Kylo could even meddle with Hux’s mind to control him.

 

Hux confided just enough of these concerns to Phasma to make her sympathetic to him.  

 

“Kylo needs to see that you are essential to his progress. He needs to see that he can’t get anywhere without you,” Phasma explained matter-of-factly, “Kylo needs to, well… _need_ you.”

 

Hux smoothed his hair down superfluously, beginning to feel very uncomfortable with the trajectory of this conversation. “Kylo has never _needed_ anything but Snoke’s approval. He couldn’t give a damn about mine. He will never need or want me for anything.”

 

Phasma sighed and reached across her workspace to cover Hux’s hand with hers. “Oh, Brendol,” she began, speaking to him as if he were terribly stupid and miserably naïve, “Everyone needs a friend. Even somebody like Kylo.”

 

He rejected this notion for a moment, going rigid upon her suggestion. “Not everyone.”

 

She raised a pale, blonde eyebrow and regarded him knowingly. “You need a friend. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.” her thumb brushed over the top of his hand. He faintly remembered a time when physical contact was something he actually sought out. Phasma continued, provoking him with her line of questions, “Are you saying Kylo isn’t like us? Isn’t like you? Are you saying Kylo is in fact _better_ than you, Brendol?” Phasma always knew how to push his buttons.

 

“He’s a Republic reject who can do magic tricks,” Hux spat.

 

“Exactly,” Phasma nodded in agreement. “You can make him see that you are indispensible to him.”

 

Hux pulled his hand away and pointed hard at his temple, growing impatient. “He can break into my head and read my thoughts, Phasma. He will see right through any efforts to kiss his arse. My motives are right here for him to read.” He poked at his temple again for emphasis, displaying his level of panic.

 

Phasma reclined in her chair and sat quietly for a moment, tapping her finger on her chin thoughtfully. Eventually, the thin line of her soft mouth began to curve slowly into a shrewd grin. “What if we could alter your motives?”

 

“How?” Hux leaned forward slightly, intrigued, pleased with his decision to consult Phasma. He knew she’d come through with a solution. She had always been resourceful.

 

“It’s emergent technology. First Order has been developing it for quite some time, but has yet to field test it. I’m actually on the development team spearheading the first field tests,” she said proudly, “It involves biomechanical implants and operant conditioning.”

 

She pulled up a holo-screen from the console at her desk and swiped through several charts and graphs with the tip of her finger. Hux moved closer to examine them.

 

“Operant conditioning is a method of eliciting specific learned behaviors from a subject by using positive reinforcement,” Phasma explained, “When a favorable response or behavior is triggered, the subject is given a rewarding stimulus.”

 

Hux interjected, “I’m familiar with operant conditioning. It’s used to train animals.”

 

“Exactly,” Phasma continued, “Same principle. In my development team’s experiments, we are introducing a target to focus the behavior. The subject is engaged by the target, or vice versa, and a favorable response is rewarded.”

 

“Are you suggesting that I train Kylo like a pet?” Hux snorted, finding the idea all too amusing, however outlandish.

 

Phasma also found it mildly comical and laughed. “You’re welcome to try, but that’s not what I’m proposing.” She pulled up another graph on the holo-screen and continued. “In the case of our test subjects, our aim is to elicit behaviors of compliance and devotion. The stimuli are endorphins – neurotransmitters – the release of which have been triggered by engaging with the target. Seeing the target, interacting with the target, causes the release of endorphins.”

 

“Are we done with the physiology lecture yet?” Hux asked with a bored sigh. None of this was new information to him.

 

“Bear with me. I’m nearly there.” Phasma pulled up yet another graph on the holo-screen and Hux felt miserably like he was sitting in one of Professor Rincor’s redundant bio-science lectures.

 

“Rather than leaving operant conditioning to its natural progression, a microprocessor is implanted into the temporal lobe of the brain – when the trigger is engaged, the microprocessor signals to the pituitary gland, causing a flood of endorphins to be released. Endorphins in turn create feelings of pleasure in the subjects. Pleasure serves as positive reinforcement to encourage the subject to repeat the behavior.”

 

Phasma suddenly paused, and her clinical manner of speaking suddenly changed. She smirked slyly. “My word, Brendol, am I getting you all hot under the collar?”

 

Hux really was getting rather agitated, though the only indication had been the ruddy color blossoming across his otherwise pale cheeks. “Do get to the point,” he urged, annoyed.

 

Phasma rested her elbow on the desk and propped her chin on her fist, smiling with smug amusement. “You do get off on science and technology, don’t you?”

 

“Solutions, Phasma,” he replied, “I _respond favorably_ to solutions. And I’ve yet to see the connection between my dilemma and your emergent technology. I’m beginning to think you brought me in here to petition me for a grant of credits.”

 

Phasma leaned close, leveling herself with Hux so that they were eye-to-eye. She tucked the fringe of her cropped, blond hair behind her ear to stare him down intently. “I know you, Hux. I know your ambitions, and I know there is little you won’t do to achieve these ambitions. Now tell me. Are you willing to let me apply this emergent technology to _you_?”

 

“Whatever it takes,” Hux said resolutely, “I’ll do it.”

 

“Perhaps I should show you some test subjects in the lab to demonstrate my proposal,” Phasma suggested, “It’ll be easier to comprehend if you see it for yourself.”

 

Hux thought of lesser beings in regards to _test subjects_ , and he wondered if maybe he had been too quick to volunteer. “I won’t be the first humanoid test subject,” he scoffed “What are you experimenting on? Lothcats? Ewoks?” he demanded.

 

“Stormtroopers.”


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

 

“You’ve been distant,” said Kylo, prodding absently at the rations on his tray, sitting across the table from Hux in the commissary.

 

Hux stared fixedly at his fork, avoiding eye contact, trying his best to be devoid of emotion or thoughts that he didn’t want Kylo to discover. _Fork, fork, fork,_ he repeated in his mind as he answered, “I’ve been busy.”

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” replied Kylo, quietly, but accusing.

 

“I’ve had a lot of work to do.” _Fork, fork, fork._

“You’re afraid of me now,” Kylo said, too pleased with himself.

 

Hux glanced away and snorted superiorly. “Not afraid of you. Just tired of you.” _Fork, fork, fork, fork, fucking fork!_

“Tired of me? I couldn’t imagine why. I’m much more interesting than a fork,” Kylo said smugly.

 

The fork began to bend in Hux’s hand, appearing to melt. He dropped it as if it burned his fingers, though it was cool to the touch. It fell onto the metal tray, clanking loudly. The sound of Kylo’s quiet, arrogant laughter grated at the inside of his head and followed him as he stormed out of the commissary. He wouldn’t give Kylo the satisfaction of blowing up and causing a scene in front of his fellow cadets.

 

~//~

 

“Now. We need to do this now,” Hux demanded as soon as he reached Phasma’s private quarters.

 

She seemed startled. “But you’re scheduled for tomorrow morning. You need to be _NPO_ at least eight hours before undergoing general anesthesia.”

 

Hux slammed his fists on the doorway and hissed through his teeth. “The risk of aspirating vomit during surgery is meaningless. You don’t understand what it’s like to have that freak inside your head all the time.”

 

“If blocking him out of your mind is what you really want, I can’t help you, Hux,” Phasma replied, annoyed with his demands.

 

Hux took a long, cleansing breath to calm himself. He knew that shouting at Phasma in her place of residence would get him nowhere. He lowered his voice. “I just want to stop policing my own thoughts. Censoring my own feelings. I’m damn good at doing that on the outside, but it’s impossible to keep doing it on the inside.”

 

Phasma mirrored his sigh, appearing sympathetic. There was a glimmer of pity in her eyes. But she remained firm. “It’s major surgery and complex coding. I can’t just assemble the team at your whim.”

 

“Can’t you, Sargent Phasma?” Hux asked, challenging her. “You _are_ head of your division. If you need to motivate your team, perhaps you should remind them who their test subject is. Who his _father_ is.”

 

“I was wondering when you were going to name-drop Commandant Hux,” Phasma said wryly. “I think _I_ need reminding of who your father is, and exactly what he can do for me and my operation.”

 

Hux smirked. “Well, I did say you were too clever to remain a sergeant. Would _lieutenant_ be sufficient enough to light the fires under your surgeons and programmers tonight?”

 

Insulted, Phasma scoffed, “It’s your body and your career that’s in the balance. Surely, daddy can do better than lieutenant.”

 

“Captain, then,” Hux resigned, “And you will have an entire squadron of Stormtroopers at your command with which to develop your technologies.”

 

She patted his cheek patronizingly and said, “I always knew I wouldn’t have to actually marry you to get ahead.”

 

“You’re ruthless, Phasma,” Hux said with an amused smirk. “I’ve always liked that most about you.”

 

“You mean you never really fancied me for my tits?” Phasma joked, glancing down at her chest, which was completely hidden behind the formless fabric of her off-duty livery. Before Hux needed to make an uncomfortable reply, she said, “Meet me in the surgical suite of Bio-tech Division 8. It’ll be more discreet if we do this on the sublevels.”

 

~//~

 

There was a moment of doubt, just before the anesthesia had been administered prior to surgery.

 

“Let’s say this works,” Hux posed to Phasma, “What if I want it to stop working?”

 

“One can be traumatized emotionally and physically only so much before logic and reason override operant conditioning,” she explained.

 

He looked at her, puzzled, perhaps a bit scared.

 

She softened a fraction as she leaned over the prep table upon which he was lying and whispered into his ear to explain, “There may come a time when he hurts you so much that you will no longer be able to love him.”

 

Hux felt reassured, though he visibly twitched at the mention of _love_. “It’s a failsafe system, then. If it gets to be detrimental, it’ll stop.”

 

“Precisely. It’s also the problem we are having when using this procedure on Stormtroopers. It’s the one issue I’ve yet to solve – how to overcome the hurdle of self-preservation trumping devotion.”

 

“For the sake of the First Order, let’s hope I’m the last test subject with a failsafe,” Hux said, still remarkably patriotic for someone who had just been given a heavy sedative. “And Phasma, tell me the name of the person that did it to you, and I’ll have them flogged publicly.” The narcotics were definitely talking at that point. Hux was feeling light-headed.

 

“Did what?” Phasma asked, shaking her head dismissively at the ramblings of a man in the first stages of anesthesia.

 

“Hurt you so irreparably that logic and reason had overridden your love for him?” Hux asked, presumptuous in his altered state.

 

Phasma chuckled quietly. “It certainly wasn’t you. And what makes you think it was a _him_?” She kissed him gently on the forehead and whispered, “Sleep now.”

 

Or perhaps Hux had imagined the kiss. Maybe the narcotics were triggering a memory of their childhood together. Whether it was real or something his drug-addled mind had conjured, it wasn’t all that unpleasant.

 

As Phasma gave the order for the general anesthetic to be administered, Hux thought how nice it was to have a friend. How nice it was to be kissed. How nice it was to not feel his face. How nice it was to feel his head disassociating from the rest of his body. How nice it was to… sleep.

 

He would not remember any of this, as was planned, nor would he remember the true nature of his surgery.

 

The team working on Hux was kept small – one surgeon, one medical technician, one coding technician, and one clinical psychologist – all sworn to secrecy, made to sign an agreement never to disclose the nature of what sort of procedure Hux had undergone, nor the reasons for it.   Even Hux himself could not know.   The contract was superfluous, for everyone on the team knew that their careers would be over if they betrayed the secrecy of their operation. Phasma personally made sure that her team also knew it would cost them their lives if they spoke of this procedure to Kylo or to Supreme Leader Snoke.


	4. Chapter 4

Hux felt an incredible itch at the back of his head upon waking up, disoriented, lying in what appeared to be a medical ward. When he went to scratch his head, he found that his arm was reluctant to respond to his will.

 

“The anesthesia is still wearing off, sir. If you need me to do anything for you, I’d be more than happy to.”

 

Hux turned his head slowly on the pillow and saw an attendant technician sitting at his bedside. “My head is so itchy. Why is my head so bloody itchy?” The voice that came out of Hux’s mouth was hoarse and the breath it took to speak made his throat sore. It was uncomfortable to talk, but not so much that Hux couldn’t make his complaints known. “And what the hell am I doing here?”

 

“What you’re feeling is acute pruritis due to the fact that your head was shaved for surgery. We gave you a keratin accelerator – a short term genetic treatment - and so your hair is growing back quickly, hence, the itchiness.”

 

Hux smoothed his hand over his stubbly scalp. It felt alien – like it wasn’t really a part of himself. With trembling fingers, he felt the miniscule grooves on his skin where, unbeknownst to him, his head had been cut open and an automaton probe had been inserted into his skull to perform the very delicate surgery of implanting three silicium microprocessors. One microprocessor was implanted in his temporal lobe, one in the hypothalamus, and one in the pituitary gland. There were no tactile receptors at the locations of the implants, so he literally could not feel that they were there.

 

“That’s all very fine and well, but _what_ surgery?” Hux asked, mildly horrified. “Where is my father? I want to speak with him,” he demanded, unsteadily rising off the pillow.

 

The technician rushed to his bedside and helped him to lie back down. If Hux hadn’t felt dizzy, he would have resisted.

 

“You had a mild aneurysm the other day, which landed you in the medical ward. You were rushed into surgery to remove a very small lesion from your brain,” said the technician.

 

Hux felt many things. Disorientation. Disbelief.   Indignation. How could this be happening to him? He had seen twenty-two cycles without any medical incidents. His bi-cyclic physical exams had always shown that he was in superb health. Even the periodic psychological evaluations, which were required of all cadets, were clean.   He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been ill – the academy, and the rest of the military base on Darwen Melos where he’d grown up, was sterile. Hux was a picture of physical and mental perfection – a glorious specimen of Imperial genetic superiority. Things like aneurysms simply did not happen to somebody like Hux.

 

“Impossible!” Hux hissed, “Liar!”

 

Before he could sit up with outrage, the technician applied restraints across Hux’s torso and administered what was likely a sedative. He immediately began to feel slow, like a flame quickly dwindling down. “I don’ wan’ sleep,” he slurred, sounding like an over-tired toddler, “I wan’ father. Summon- _umun_ Command- _andadant_ Hux.”

 

Everything went black.

 

When he woke again, it was to a sharp pain in his neck as a reversal agent was administered, bringing him sharply out of sedation like a slap in the face. And like waking up a dianoga from hypersleep too soon, Hux was an enraged monster.

 

“How dare you!” he snapped, slapping the technician’s hand away from the intravenous port in his neck. He yanked out the syringe and threw it to the floor. “I demand to see my father!”

 

Phasma approached, her sudden appearance startling Hux. “Calm down, Brendol. Your father sends his regards, but is indisposed at the moment. He has appointed me to personally ensure that your post-surgical care is both efficient and sufficient.”

 

“You?” Hux looked at her as if she had sprouted another blonde head. “Sargent Phasma, I believe this is quite out of your jurisdiction and your qualifications.”

 

“On the contrary,” she replied, self-assuredly, “My work in the Bio-tech division, specifically in the vein of psychology, makes me well-suited to the appointment. And it is _Captain_ Phasma to you, cadet.”

 

“What?” Hux gaped with disbelief at the stripes on the sleeve of Phasma’s charcoal grey uniform and saw the colors that indeed delineated her as a captain of The First Order. “How long had I been asleep? What is today’s date? What time is it? Have you been here the whole time?” he demanded in quick succession.

 

“It’s the ninth day of the fourth quarter-cycle. Oh-seven-hundred hours,” Phasma replied, “You have been in and out of medically-induced unconsciousness for approximately three days, and yes I have been here nearly the whole time. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t remember _that._ Do you remember why you’re here?”

 

Hux was fuming, but his scant hospital gown rendered him less of an intimidating force to be reckoned with. “Yes. And pardon my language _Captain_ , but this is bloody outrageous! Aneurysm, my _arse_!”

 

Phasma rolled her eyes. “It’s not entirely implausible. It’s not some genetic defect, so you need not worry your perfect little head. The surgeon who removed the lesion believes you sustained a concussion at some point, likely during a combat exercise, resulting in scar tissue in your brain. It is of utmost importance that you are evaluated psychologically to ensure there are no lingering effects.”

 

“I’m perfectly fine,” Hux insisted, “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

 

Phasma smiled tightly. “We’ll see. You’re being released from the recovery ward. Report to Doctor Cresna in Psych-eval Division 3.”

 

~//~

 

Hux felt much more dignified, having shed the hospital rags in favor of his clean, pressed, and precisely creased Imperial cadet blues. He sat in Doctor Cresna’s office scrolling through archive, after archive, after archive of sentry drone camera footage. Apparently, looking at mundane activity without incident was supposed to demonstrate to the doctor that his brain had healed properly, without any deficiencies.

 

He watched Stormtrooper cadets going through their parade formations. Imperial cadets sitting in the lecture hall. Officers dining in the commanders’ dining hall. It was the most boring thing he’d ever been subjected to – even less stimulating than Professor Rincor’s lectures.

 

The next hologram he played startled him and made his heart jump inside his chest. There was immediate recognition, and perhaps that is what made Hux flinch. On the screen was Kylo in the simulation arcade, going through a combat exercise. Kylo moved swiftly against a holographic assailant, kicking and punching at it with the agile grace. He was mesmerized by this lithe figure, dressed all in form-fitting black, raging like a warrior with purpose and lethal intent.

 

Hux had seen Kylo do this many times before, having trained along side him for years. But to be like an insect on the wall, watching without Kylo knowing, absent of the competitive tension, was actually pleasing. Kylo was something to be admired. Nobody moved like Kylo moved, or fought like he fought. Hux couldn’t even bring himself to feel jealous, though he knew that Kylo’s combat skills had become far superior ever since those secret sessions with Snoke.

 

When the archive hologram footage ended, Hux felt inspired to watch it again. And again.   And again. And _again_. Until watching Kylo became a compulsive need. He had forgotten that he was in a clinical setting, and was just about to replay the archive clip for a fifth time when Doctor Cresna remarked, “Interesting…,” snapping him out of his obsessive drive to keep his eyes on Kylo.

 

Hux glared up at the doctor and sneered, “I’m not crazy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're anxious for updates, I may post un-beta'd chapters on my tumblr before I post them here. It's huxfix.tumblr. It's a Hux-centric/Domhnall Gleeson-centric blog that's home to Bad Hux Pickup Lines, so follow if you're so inclined.
> 
> Comments, reactions, constructive criticism are all welcome and encouraged.


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